The Apologist
by Kittie Darkhart
Summary: Because there are times when simply saying "I'm sorry" isn't always good enough. A belated apology from the one who thought he knew her best. Set before the finale of TDKR.


**Disclaimer****:** _I don't own Batman, the characters, places, etc. All right belong to DC Comics, Warner Brothers, the Nolan Brothers, and their respected owners._

**Summary****:** Because, sometimes, simply saying "I'm sorry" isn't always good enough. A belated apology from the one who thought he knew her best. Set before the finale of TDKR.

**The Apologist**

**Apologist: /**_**ə**__**ˈ**__**p**__**ɒ**__**l**__**ə**__**d**__**ʒɪ**__**st**_**/ ****Etymology:**** French **_**apologiste**_**, Greek **_**ἀ**__**πολογία**_** defense, after **_**ἀ**__**νταγωνιστ**__**-**__**ής**_** , **_**σο**__**ϕ**__**ιστής**_** , etc.: see apology n. and -ist suffix. Definition: **_**One who apologizes for, or defends by argument; a professed literary champion**_** — The Oxford English Dictionary. ****... **

_**The Palisades, Late Winter**_

He should've visited her long before now.

That much, he knew, he should've at least done. For her. It was no less than what she deserved. She'd loved him once, after all.

Taking a few minutes out of his less-than-glamorous career as an eccentric playboy billionaire, to drop in and just say "Hello," would've been something she'd wanted; for him to simply remember her, greet her with a genuine smile, and recall a happy time shared between them as children. She'd never forgotten him, not entirely. Not even in the seven years when he was half a world away. She'd remembered their friendship, remembered him. But then, he'd lived every day with the memory of _her_.

He'd lived every day with a belief that was based on nothing more than a beautifully constructed _lie_.

And yet, his negligence in visiting her had been the first in a long succession of past regrets he now endeavored to make up for. After all, he'd made a promise to her—a promise that he never had the chance to fulfill—as that promise was now all but a memory etched in some nearby corner of his mind. Memories were now all he had of her. Memories and pain. Two sides of a perfectly unified coin that always sided on loss when flipped.

He inwardly shuddered as the truth of that apathetic sense of probability stung him, even more so than the bitter cold that now encased the city in a perpetual wasteland of ice and snow. Trapped in a white hell. With shades of black and gray cast perilously in between. He barely noticed the snowflakes falling around him in a flurry of soundless movement, his eyes trained instead on the cold, gray monument of stone standing before him.

It was a simple square fixture, its base jutting out of the hard ground in plain marble tones which resonated soundly among the rows of others surrounding it. There was nothing extraordinary about it. Only a name and a couple of dates. A common epitaph. And yet, it was the name itself—a poetic aperture, seemingly ascribed by one more attuned in fashioning names than he—that struck a chord deep from within. For it was a name he knew he would never forget. Not even when he became old and gray. If he ever lived to such an age. For now, he couldn't reassure himself of that; death had always come so unexpectedly and seemingly out of nowhere in his life. A blind decision. Tied and broken. A fatal switch. He'd failed her all the same.

"I'm so sorry," he croaked out, barely above a whisper, as he stared at the half-obscured grave, the name hidden from sight. But his words were not enough. They would _never_ be enough. He made a strangled sound in the back of his throat, tears brimming in the corners of his tired, bloodshot eyes. He should've said good-bye before he left that first time. He should've made well on his promise to her when he finally returned. He should've done a lot of things.

But failure, it seemed, had always been one of his many faults, when it concerned the woman lying in the cold ground before him.

He'd tried to save her; he'd chosen her over the life of another. He couldn't save both. But, in the end, he'd inadvertently saved the life of the one who hadn't wanted saving. The addresses had been switched. A veritable Catch-22. Followed by the inevitable downfall of a brilliant White Knight. The world was cruel and seldom ever fair. He knew that for a fact, considering how he lost his parents. And then he'd lost the one person who knew him best of all, although that had been of his own making. He was sure Alfred would've stayed otherwise. But he'd pushed the older gentleman away, his one and only family, to some unknown place in the world. He hadn't even bothered to learn where Alfred had gone, already having a vague idea as to Alfred's destination—somewhere far from the darkness and despair that encompassed both Gotham and the man who had failed in protecting it.

Bruce had lost everything. His family, his friends, his money. Save for his reason to live. Out of everything he should've lost, his desire to continue living had been the one thing he'd somehow regained.

_**But sometimes a man rises from the darkness. Sometimes the pit sends something back.**_

Alfred had been right, ultimately. For whatever it was that came out of the pit…

It was something more than Bruce Wayne and Batman combined.

Something had _arisen_ from that hellhole—something completely different from the myriad of faceless, nameless shadows from his past. It was when he'd seen the bats flying overhead. That had been the defining moment. Seeing them had given him the incentive to jump, to fight on, no matter the cost. He wouldn't die imprisoned in that dirty hole, a broken man, who remained shackled with a sense of decaying hope. He would return. He would save Gotham. He would be what the city needed him to be—what its people _needed_ him to be.

And he had.

He'd kept his word.

Gotham was safe. It now had a hero. A symbol. The people could now believe in themselves, to stand up against crime, tyranny, and every form of corruption. It was the sacrifice that so many had made—a sacrifice he had made—for everyone to live without fear. It was the reason why he was here, standing in front of a stone instead of a woman he'd loved with almost every fiber of his being. He faintly smiled at the thought, although it was a sad smile mixed with the most sublime of tears. He'd almost believed that they could've had a life together, could've been happy together. But then, he reminded himself that she'd chosen another—another who was now just as dead as she. Harvey Dent. Two-Face. Gotham's tarnished White Knight. The man had many epitaphs accredited to his name: politician, a fallen hero, madman, monster, martyr, false idol, saint.

But a husband hadn't been one of them.

_**Of course you can't say the same for yourself, can you, Bruce? Funny thing, chance.**_

The question seemed to come out of nowhere; more like a hollow resonance in the back of his mind. Although whether it was from a cynical, half-deformed Harvey Dent or his own subconscious, Bruce couldn't affirm which. Not with any amount of certainty. Maybe Dent was here, haunting him simply for the hell of it. On the other hand, maybe he was crazy; he'd damaged some of his brain tissue in his one-man crusade against crime. An eight-year depression, with a near suicidal intent in fighting a man who outmatched him in both strength and purpose, followed by his time in the pit…had almost broken him. But his resolve, as if by some miracle, had somehow remained intact. He'd fought against failure and won. She would've been proud of him; he knew that much. It was a small comfort, at least. She would've been happy to see him succeed, to confront the demons of his past, to finally let go.

He looked at the grave in silence, and then leaned forward, his gloved fingers edging away the snow that obscured the name. He ignored the slight stab of pain he felt, the restriction in his suit reminding him of the injury in his side. He inhaled slightly, a hitched breath, and then exhaled. The knife had missed his vital organs. He would live. But that didn't stop the pain from reminding him of his stupidity.

"You'd think I would've known better," he wearily remarked to her with a rueful smile, the last of the snow smoothed away from that silent, unspoken name. "I'd forgotten everything when you left. I let my guard down."

Still, though, it was a poor excuse—not that he'd ever been much in having good judgment, let alone being much of an apologist. His former mentor had reaffirmed that notion very clearly—even if the man had only been nothing more than a hallucination, brought on by his own despair. And then he laughed at himself, ignoring another wave of pain from his side. Of course, _she_ would've shaken her head, a look of utter disappointment drawn deeply in those hazel eyes. He'd thought he could move on from her, to finally take a step in a new direction. And where had that led him? Nearly to his death. Yes, she would've thought his trust in someone who turned out to be none other than the daughter of Rā's al Ghūl horribly naïve.

And maybe he was.

But years of isolation had given him a somewhat jaded perspective on life. He no longer saw things with the bright-eyed hope he'd seen in the eyes of John Blake. He, like the man the standing in the shadow of his thoughts, had lived too long, perhaps. Even her mother, who'd taken her away from the tragedy he represented, would've professed as much. It was a shame that Ms. Dawes had passed on, not long after learning of the death of her daughter. It was another thing he'd regretted. A sudden burst of sound shattered his present thoughts as he turned in its direction.

From a distance, he could see fireworks erupt across a grayscale sky. The city was celebrating its freedom. Celebrating life. For that, in itself, was the price of freedom. The good often died as the bad endured, while the rest were left to pick up the pieces of what remained.

And he'd picked up so many; the figurative scars on his fingers and hands left from the shards a grim reminder of just how many.

He'd grown so weary of living a broken life.

She would've told him to snap out of it and _do_ something. She'd always been the proactive one. He chuckled in spite of his pain. He vaguely remembered her saying something to that effect once before. It wouldn't do to linger on the past. She'd want him to live beyond the shell of a man who'd occupied a hidden wing of his vast estate for eight years. He'd insulted her memory by living as a shut-in. He was no longer the Bruce she knew, the one she'd once loved.

But no more.

Turning his head slightly to the right, he glanced at the grave next to hers. He'd long avoided coming here because of _it_. But now it was time to finally acknowledge it, and, God willing, he could finally lay another ghost to rest. Eight years had been long enough in harboring old grudges. Repeating the same gesture as he had with hers, he wiped the snow away from the stone's hard surface, its long, white marble column slightly contrasting the short dove-gray one next to it. Bruce allowed himself to smile. For even in death, the color suited the one beneath it. He frowned at what he saw beneath the pristine white snow as the scars of a long-enduring hatred were buried deep within the otherwise perfect stone.

Knife marks, combined with a mixture of black and red spray paint, marred both the name and epitaph. A perfect parallel to what had transpired in reality. It was a sad irony. And Bruce quietly lamented the sight. People who lived outside of Gotham's main center had undoubtedly seen the news feed of Bane reading Gordon's speech. The revelation had doubtlessly rekindled a raging fire beyond the city. And so someone had defaced the monument of a fallen man who'd lost sight of himself at the end. It shouldn't have surprised Bruce; vandalism and an individual's attempt at a sick joke were boundless. But actually seeing it, staring him in the face…troubled him more than the many photos and likenesses of Harvey Dent he'd seen flooded across Gotham over the years. That single image had become nothing short of a holy icon for some. The man had almost achieved sainthood because of it. Bruce inwardly quaked at the thought. A profound repercussion from eight years ago.

The consequences of that night had haunted him for as long as it haunted his friend, the commissioner. They'd kept up appearances, living a lie, so that the city could live on in hope. The proverbial coin had been flipped. And now everyone lived with its outcome. The grave he presently considered was no exception.

"I'm sorry, Harvey," he said, repeating the words he'd said so many years ago. He sighed then, his gloved hand sliding against the broken, graffiti-inlaid stone. "I tried to save her, like we both wanted. If I'd known the addresses had been switched. If I'd realized that everything had been done to bring you down sooner…"

He couldn't bring himself to finish. Thinking of that despicable piece of trash—that, as far as Bruce knew, was mercifully imprisoned far away from Gotham—pained him even more than the knife wound in his side. Bruce had suffered because of him. Harvey Dent had suffered just as equally, if not more. For the man had obviously loved Rachel—perhaps even more so than Bruce himself. He didn't want to consider the possibility. But setting aside his reluctance, he forced himself to give a selfless examination of the relationship that Dent had shared with the woman they both loved. He looked again at the monument standing so solitarily in front of him.

Before the truth had been revealed, the city had constructed Dent's monument, next to the one he'd lost in the bloody carnage of one who thrived on chaos. No one had laid a finger on hers, luckily, and perhaps Dent's grave, which towered so high above her own—a veritable open target—had prevented that. It was what Bruce wanted to think, anyway. For there they were, the tragic lovers, together in death. He almost felt like a third wheel, not truly welcomed, but received nonetheless. He tried to find some comfort in the fact, but only felt hollow inside. Dead. Bruce Wayne was as effectively dead as they. At least, in the eyes of the world. The former district attorney would've probably found humor in his rival's situation. Billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne killed amidst the riots on the rich and powerful. It was a funny way to die.

Turning away from Dent's grave, he returned his attention to the name in which he rarely spoke. He stood for a moment in total silence, his brown eyes lingering over her name, and then her death date. He closed his eyes, unable to bear the sight.

"Alfred told me about the letter, about what you said," he murmured quietly, his eyes remaining closed, distanced from the comforting solace her deathlike silence provided him. "He didn't tell me about it for a long time, and I can't say that his keeping the truth from me didn't hurt. It did. But I'm not angry. I can't be. Because I finally understand. I put you through so much, because I had to be what I thought Gotham needed me to be—what_ I_ needed myself to be." He opened his eyes then and looked at the stone, a new sense of awareness illuminating the corners of his eyes. In the distance, he noticed the sun breaking through the thick, dark clouds, shattering its icy hold on the world.

_**The night is the darkest just before the dawn.**_

He felt encouraged by the power behind those words. Maybe Harvey had forgiven him, after all. And maybe, one day, he could finally forgive himself. He glanced at the rising sun, taking in its slight warmth as it seemed to melt away the eight-year winter that had long resided in his heart.

It was the beginning of a new day.

And, perhaps, it was also the beginning of a new life.

Suddenly finding the mask he wore too constricting, he wrenched it away from his face before fighting against the pain the sudden movement inflicted on his side. For there he stood, the mask that had become both a symbol of heroism and villainy, now held idly at his side, his face—the face of a man whose countenance was no more than a mask itself—bared for all who might happen to chance upon it.

But there was no one there.

Only he and the dead.

The living—the survivors of Bane's occupation—were celebrating their victory against tyranny—far across the river that separated the city from this piece of quiet earth that housed the dead.

Ignoring the pain his left knee gave him, he knelt before her, his expression one of supplication. His fingers once again traced her name—very much as he would her face—in a silent note of reverence. It was time to say good-bye. Glancing down at the mask he held in his other hand, he set it before him. A silent vow. But he felt a sense of relief—one that he hadn't felt since childhood.

"I think I now understand," he furthered, almost breathlessly. "I'm finally ready to let it go." He was reluctant to tell her the reason for such a change, but it wouldn't be fair _not_ to tell her. She'd been his friend and something more to him, and she'd also had the decency to give him a letter. A letter he never read, yet knew its contents. She had a right to know. And so, without hesitation, he told her what happened to him in the pit, of his ill-fated encounter with the daughter of Rā's al Ghūl, and of the secret revelation he'd had the moment he'd decided to take the bomb the would become Gotham's destruction out of the city. He told her everything in quiet, soft-spoken tones that only she could hear. He then told her of the woman who'd stolen his mother's pearls and forced him back into the world.

"I think you would've liked her," he mused, suddenly becoming wistful. "She's really not someone I should like, especially since she accidentally helped Daggett bankrupt me, but I know there's more to her than what she even believes in herself. She makes me laugh," he added, somewhat as an afterthought. "But even more than that, she's given me the will to move on. And I'm glad of it. I haven't been this happy in a long time. I never thought I could ever be again." He shook his head then, a few stray bits of hair falling across his sweaty brow. "I thought the world ended when my parents died, but when I lost you…It did something to me. I shut myself off from everyone and everything. Alfred hated it, hated what I'd become. But I was too out of it to hate myself for it. I just didn't care anymore." He shrugged then, an uncommon gesture for a man born in the Regency Room of a grand manor. "I thought my life had ended when you died."

He looked down at the mask, its solid black shape standing out against the white snow surrounding it. "But then, Alfred said that's all part of living, and that I really wasn't. I _was_ waiting for things to go bad again," he admitted, glancing down at the ground for a moment in shame before looking again at the silent stone, his reflection cast sedately in its smooth surface. He stared at it, gazing upon the face in the suit that no longer befitted him. "But I can't do that, not anymore," he said, a hint of confidence returning to his voice. "I've decided to live, not only for everyone I care about, but for myself. I'm going to move on with my life, because I know that's what you would've wanted for me to do." He stood then, a great weight slowly falling from a pair of long-burdened shoulders. "And I'm ready now. I can finally let being Batman go."

_**I would've waited for you.**_

The hard lines around Bruce's eyes lightened, an expression of relief smoothing them away, if only slightly. "I know," he whispered, and then looked down, a smile akin to pure contentment suddenly overcoming the anguish he'd so long born inside. "And it's all right now. We both know that I wasn't ready then, and that you'd already chosen someone who made you happy." He failed to remark on how that someone had changed, as he instead remembered the man before the fire had burned away more than just half a face. "I'm not angry; I'm really all right now. Thanks to you." He began to turn away then, yet paused in his intent. Leaning forward, he placed two fingers against his lips before touching the letters of her name.

_Rachel Dawes_

It was a farewell from one friend to another. A final kiss. That would never be repeated. "Thank you, for always being there for me. You helped give my life a sense of purpose, and I can now move on. Thank you, Rachel. For everything."

He offered her a final smile, and then nodded to Harvey's grave, silently promising to have someone restore it to its former glory. It was the least he could do. It was the least he could for both of _them_. Turning around to look at the sky in the distance, he looked at the sun, the figurative shadows in his eyes falling away at last. He would no longer inhabit them, the cave in which he'd for so long hidden himself away no longer his to keep. Another would take up the mantle as Gotham's protector, should it ever have need of one. He hoped it wouldn't; he hoped that people could believe in themselves, but if they ever should need someone again…

He was certain that Blake would find the coordinates he'd left. The young detective would figure them out. Gordon would also catch onto what had happened, certainly. And Fox, sooner or later. Though, as for the rest…

There were a few things left to do before he left this part of his life behind forever. A few loose ends that had yet to be tied up. He was sure Selina would help him figure everything out—once he was through in convincing her that he'd survived, that was. Batman was dead, yes. But _he_ still had yet to see her. Of course, the kiss she'd given him was evidence enough that her offer had been sincere; that she would anywhere and do anything with _him_. A former billionaire, whom she now had no reason to despise, given his lack of wealth. She'd come around, eventually. Of that, Bruce was certain. He reached into his belt and pulled something out from one of its many compartments. He grinned at the small string of pearls. Yes, she would come around; she liked what he held way too much for her to say no to what he'd offer her. Perhaps she would even endeavor to help him in letting the world believe that Bruce Wayne was dead, a clean slate wiping away every living trace of his once miserable existence.

She possessed the key to a new life, after all.

And yet, as he considered this, with the sun full on his face and a new life bordering on the horizon, he turned toward the silent pair of graves and acknowledged them a final time. Perhaps it would be the last time he would ever see them, for who knew what the future held? And so he said farewell, as he promised both that he would remember everything they'd done and sacrificed to bring the city they fought for out of the darkness. They had been casualties. But they would be remembered. That was how the good endured, after all. Treasuring the love of his parents' memory had proven that. He'd now finally found his faith in people. Just as she'd hoped he would.

And so he turned away from one of the last vestiges of his past, making his way out of the cemetery in silence, his shredded black cape billowing darkly in the cold wind. He moved silently, steadily, suddenly regaining a newfound sense of purpose as he ignored the pain in his side, a look of utter joy etched into the hard lines of his face. It felt so good to be alive. To finally have something to look forward to.

He didn't look back.

There was no reason for him to.

Though, if he had, perhaps he would've seen that the wind had blown the snow from the top of Dent's grave over a hard black shape that lay at the base of Rachel's, the snow's powdery white purity half-obscuring it from the light of the world.

…

**Author's Note: I actually can't believe I decided to write this. I've never written a **_**Batman**_** story before, even though I've been a longtime fan. I just hope I did Bruce justice in this. I simply loved him in the trilogy. My heart went out multiple times for him, and I can't say how happy I was by the trilogy's conclusion. My inner-fangirl was genuinely, deliriously pleased because of it. :D After reading through the novelization, it made me even happier, especially since there is so much dealing with the characters' thoughts—things that we don't readily see in the film. I cannot recommend reading the film novelization enough, although the part dealing with Miranda Tate asking Bruce about Rachel is sadly absent in the novel. :( Perhaps that was added into the film. **

**Concerning the title, I know it's not a common one, by any means, but it was the one that came to me. I usually have a lot of difficulty in coming up with story titles, but this one seemed to fit—perhaps even so more than what I'd originally anticipated. I like how the word has more than one meaning, since it can be both for one who makes an apology, as well as a defense for his/her actions/beliefs. I think it's a nice dichotomy in which Bruce does both. Since **_**The Dark Knight Rises**_** left a few things vague, I really wanted to write the one thing I wanted to see, and that was Bruce saying goodbye to Rachel. We really only seemed to get a sense of his moving on from Rachel by the middle of the film, but I wanted to emphasize that a little more. I admit that I was never overly fond of Rachel, especially since I was surprised that she became a love interest for Bruce in **_**Batman Begins**_**, and was somewhat in **_**The Dark Knight**_**. I didn't hate her, but I've always preferred him with Selina. But taking a step back from the trilogy, I can now appreciate what all she did for him, and how she helped him into becoming a better person.**

**As such, I also didn't want to focus that much on Selina here, since this oneshot is more so dedicated to Bruce and Rachel.**

**I also chose the Palisades as a place of burial, for the reason that it seemed more peaceful, compared to being interred in the city itself. I also thought that the prisoners of Blackgate would've done a lot more than vandalism to Harvey's grave, so I decided to prevent them from that possibility by having the cemetery away from the city. There's also the fact that Harvey seemed to have no idea where the Palisades were, so I found it interesting to have him buried in a place he hadn't really ever been to. It also seemed fitting, especially since I wanted Bruce to have some privacy in his farewells to Harvey and Rachel. **

**And this might be odd for me to admit, but Harvey Dent is actually my favorite character in **_**The Dark Knight **_**Trilogy. I don't think I could ever write anything solely about him, though. I'm also reluctant to refer to Harvey as Two-Face, so I generally don't. That's really why I only mentioned that name once in the story. I didn't care for his other side in the comics/animated series all that much. It was really the Nolan brothers' take on his character in **_**The Dark Knight**_** that won me over with his tragedy. So, yes, he gets a bit of fan-service here. :D There's also a slight allusion to **_**Wuthering Heights**_**, close to the end with Harvey and Rachel. And like **_**Wuthering Heights**_**, I've decided to leave the notion of the natural world versus the supernatural open. I have my own thoughts regarding the ending, but I'd rather just leave it open for everyone to interpret it however they like. I mean, there's a bit of symbolism there, certainly. But it's really left to everyone's interpretation.**

**But, anyway, I hope everyone enjoyed it; it was just something I had to type out, you know? I'd love to hear everyone's thoughts. It's so fun to write in this fandom. :)**

**Best wishes,**

— **Kittie**


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